


Use Somebody

by keycchan



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Speciesism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 11:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18690979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: “Nick, you can’t be serious,” Judy speaks up all worried, snapping him back to the present, “You’re not going home until they make sure your vitals stay stable. And you are not going back into work so soon.”Nick very, very gently shoves the dull ache in his chest aside to roll his eyes instead. Loudly. “Carrots, it’s just a stab wound. It’s not like I got shot or anything. I’ll be fine.”Judy’s eyes bug out at him. It’d be funny in any other circumstance, just like when she starts gesturing wildly at air at the comment. “Just a stab wound — Nick! Being stabbed isn’t something you can just shrug off! You got stabbed!”





	Use Somebody

**Author's Note:**

> note: this can be read as both romantic or gen, so go to town.

Nick’s been hurt plenty of times before. He’s gotten into his fair share of street fights, back alley brawls. Even got his arm broken from a fistfight once. Getting shoved onto a hard floor and forcefully held down and muzzled? Turns out that was just the tip of the iceberg re: him versus injuries.

Stabbed though?

Now that’s a new one.

( Not like Nick _expected_ to get stabbed, of course. Furthest thing from his mind at almost any time, actually. Even making his way through the notoriously skeevy streets of downtown Sahara Square — you know, as one does on a Saturday afternoon, because Nick’s suddenly got a _lot_ of free time now that he’s not in the petty crime biz anymore so it’s not like he’s got a lot of things to do on his off days — he wasn’t thinking about that.

He was too busy thinking about other things. You know, important things, like — like finding a new pair of shades because the frames of his are crooked, or meeting up with Judy for dinner after she clocked out of work, or coming up with dinner plans to absolutely _decimate_ the roasted eggplant lasagne from Marco’s.

Or at least he was, until he saw —)

Here’s what they don’t tell you about hospitals: for all it seems clinical and cold and full of death, it’s also one of the most restful places one can get, if you’re tired enough.

Nick’s definitely up there, he figures, as he comes back to the land of the living. His eyes focus and then re-focus on the ceiling as his head swims up to the surface, tongue licking at the fuzzy sourness on his canines that comes from sleeping for way too long. He’s careful when he moves his paw up to rub his eyes and his snout — the IV needle’s as unpleasant as he remembers, and they must be using a bigger needle than they had the last time he was here because he can _feel_ it under the skin of his paw when he traces it with his other. Also, he has a stab wound in his side, so that’s also another reason to go easy on the movements.

It doesn’t help too much. It still hurts a little, twinges and stings when he moves his arm, but he’s stitched up and probably on some really good painkillers so. All good. He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He’s been through worse, he’s fine.

And then the door opens, and he meets worried lavender eyes, and then he’s not quite so fine anymore.

“Nick — Oh, Nick, how long’ve you been awake?” Carrots, _his_ Carrots, comes in and — god, even in this kind of situation she’s so calm and considerate, keeping her voice low and shutting the door quiet behind her instead of rushing in like he knows she wants to. It’d be endearing as hell, if it weren’t for the worried look on her face that makes his heart ache a little.

“J’st got up.” Nick answers, and then clears his throat when his voice comes out scratchier and stuck. “How long was I out?”

Judy walks over proper, once she shuts the door, scooting the plastic chair closer to his bed before sitting down. Her ears are droopy. “Eighteen hours, give or take. You got patched up, woke up for a little while after the surgery, and then dropped right back out once the doctor looked you over.”

“Mm. Yes. I remember that part.” Though remember may be too generous a word. He remembers the smell of antiseptic, of blood, waking up with an unfamiliar face hovering over his and asking him questions, himself _answering_ said questions, and then going right back into snoozeville. What the questions actually were or what he answered — that part’s anybody’s guess. “Anyway. Shouldn’t you be at work, Carrots? Fangmeyer’s gonna be real lonely on beat patrol today.”

“ _Fangmeyer_ should stop talking so much when he’s on patrol, then maybe mammals would _want_ to pair up with him voluntarily then.” Judy says, her little nose tilting higher when she says it, and Nick _has_ to smile at that. For a goody two shoes bunny, she’s got a sharp mouth on her whenever she gets comfy with someone. She smiles too when she sees _him_ smile, and he can almost forget the ache in his side when he sees it.

And then she has to open that mouth and ruin it. “Nick, about what happened —“

“— What _happened_ is that I caught the bad guy, and solved my first major case since I started wearing the badge.” Nick interrupts, matter of factly. “And now I just gotta catch a few more Zs and wait for the good doctor to let me go home.”

( Still a novelty, that. He has a home now. Like, _home_ home. Not box-under-a-bridge-living-in-emotional-and-literal-squalor home. He actually _has_ a place now, a nice cozy apartment nestled right near the edge between the desert district and Savanna Central. It’s not big, or particularly fancy, and the communal bathroom means that he has to schedule himself if he wants to have his morning coffee, but when he goes out onto the tiny balcony outside his living room he can look at the streets from above and actually see the Zootopian skyline. It’s not the kind of apartment you’d see on a magazine — but it’s _his_ , and that counts for so much more than he could ever even begin to describe.

He wishes he could bring his mom there.  Show her around the tiny space that’s all his own _,_ that he got all by himself, _mom, look, I promised you I’d be fine, right? I made it in the end, didn’t I?_ And she’d be _proud_ , and so _happy_ , she’d say _oh, my Nicky,_ and he could make her dinner and they’d have coffee on the balcony watching the night sky just like she always wanted to do watching those cheesy movies those times they could still afford to turn on the TV, and he could just forget about how she’s lying six feet under _far_ too young and robbed of the opportunities the world _owes her_ — )

“Nick, you can’t be serious,” Judy speaks up all worried, snapping him back to the present, “You’re not going home until they make sure your vitals stay stable. And you are _not_ going back into work so soon.”

Nick very, very gently shoves the dull ache in his chest aside to roll his eyes instead. Loudly. “Carrots, it’s just a stab wound. It’s not like I got _shot_ or anything. I’ll be fine.”

Judy’s eyes bug out at him. It’d be funny in any other circumstance, just like when she starts gesturing wildly at air at the comment. “ _Just_ a stab wound — Nick! Being stabbed isn’t something you can just shrug off! You got _stabbed!_ ”

“And I live to tell the tale, so what’s the big—“

“— You almost _didn’t!_ ” Oh, no. Oh _no_. Her voice is going all warbly and — yup, her big lavender eyes are shimmering with wetness and crap, shit, _fuck_ , he didn’t want to make her _cry —_

He reaches out before he can even think about it, stab wound be damned, shoving away the pain to take her paw in his. Thankfully, she meets him halfway so he doesn’t have to stretch _too_ far and risk popping open all his nice new stitches, and when he starts stroking the back of her paw with his thumb she calms down a little more, bit by bit. If it calms him down too, helps settle the ache in his own heart — well. That’s just a bonus.

“…  You could’ve died, Nick. If she’d stabbed you just a couple more inches in, it would’ve perforated an _organ_ , and then where would I be without my partner around, huh?” Judy mumbles finally, wiping the moisture from her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “You weren’t even supposed to _be_ there.”

“It was my off day, Carrots. I can go wherever I want.” Nick says matter-of-factly, and very gracefully evading every other thing she said. “Plus, you and I both know the affogato at Piper’s Pipin’ Hot is like, the _best_ affogato in Zootopia.”

“And you and I _also_ both know that you didn’t go in there for the coffee.” Judy fires back, before she blinks. “… Okay, not _just_ for the coffee. Goodness knows you’re the only mammal I know who’d cross districts just to get your joe.”

“With old age comes better priorities.” Nick says wisely, and grins when it makes her crack an amused half-smile.

“Oh, har-har, Mister Barely-Thirty-Three.” She snorts, before shaking her head. “But seriously, Nick. You don’t — You don’t have to lie to me, okay? We both know what you were doing there. And you didn’t _have_ to be.”

Nick huffs, and looks away from her suddenly very, very intense eyes to look at the far more important stain at the corner of his ceiling. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Carrots. I was just getting coffee.”

Really. _Really_ really, he was. And if it just so happened that Sandtrap Avenue not only had the best affogato in Zootopia but _also_ just was known for the fact that gossip and rumour travelled around there as fast as a storm — it was just coincidence. So _what_ if there was a string of B&E’s terrorizing the area that also happened to be his first major case as a cop? Just pure coincidence that the affogato was in the area, that’s all. And like Judy said, it wasn’t like it was out of character for him to go the extra mile just to enjoy some good caffeine.

It’s not like he doesn’t know what to do with his time now that he’s not struggling every day just trying to survive to the next. Certainly not like he’s desperate to prove himself to the ZPD, to his colleagues, to everyone who’s ever doubted him or shoved him aside or called him nothing more than a shifty lowlife, to the whole of _Zootopia_ or… or anything. He just happened to be in the area. Really. Had his affogato in his hand and everything when he was walking back to his car and saw his lead suspect — a sneaky opossum that went by Olly Summers — climbing out of a broken apartment window with a hefty looking backpack.

And, yeah, coincidence or not — Nick’s always been an opportunist, alright? He just _happened_ to be in the area, obviously, but he wasn’t just going to let his lead suspect go when she was _right there_ literally in the middle of committing a painfully obvious daylight burglary, so _obviously_ he had to go and apprehend her.

Too bad that chinchilla got to him first, though. (Also too bad: the fact that the chinchilla had a fucking knife.)

When he finally turns back to look at Judy, he almost winces at the completely unimpressed look on her face. Wholly unconvinced. He swallows, and moves to retract his paw — though he doesn’t make it too far before Judy takes it back, and twines their fingers together in a way that definitely doesn’t make his heart melt or anything, despite the uneasy topic at hand.

“Nick… Listen. I know what you were trying to do, okay?” Judy says, her voice gone all _soft_ and _tender_ in the way she does whenever she’s trying to sound _extra nice_ while also _teaching a lesson_ and if she wasn’t both the best and scariest person he knows, he’d have rolled his eyes by now. As it is though, it feels… really nice, the way she’s holding his paw like this, and there’s suddenly this super inconvenient lump in his throat that he’s trying to make disappear through sheer force of will.

She keeps talking, despite his obvious discomfort. “I was there too, okay? When you join the force, it’s — it’s super easy, to think you need to prove yourself right off the bat. I was there, remember? Took on a missing mammal case on my second day in the ZPD, ended up accidentally tearing Zootopia apart for a solid three months?”

Nick swallows. It doesn’t help the lump-in-throat business. “Yeah, I was there for that part.”

She actually _smiles_ , and oh, God, it’s so tender his teeth ache. “Yeah, you were. Every step of the way. So you should know that, that _I_ would know what you’re going through. Trying to prove yourself, make the world look at you _beyond_ your species and instead at your accomplishments, even if it means pushing harder than everyone else, pushing and pushing until you’re running on fumes — I get it. Nick, I _get it_. I really do.”

Except she really, really doesn’t. Even as she keeps talking, talks about her childhood and how she had to work so hard to even voice her dreams, talks about going through the academy and having to work twice as hard for half the recognition — he knows, in his core, that she _doesn’t get it_. Not all of it.

Like, he appreciates her effort, alright. And he _knows_ her struggle, won’t diminish how hard it was for her, she’s had her own heavyweight of stigma to fight against to earn her way to where she is, but it’s just. It’s not the _same_ , as what he’s been through. What he’s _still going_ through. And he’s not stupid enough to say that he’s had it worse, because the fact is they’re both dealing through significantly painful problems and both are as valid as any other, but.

That’s the thing, really. It’s _different_. Her experiences are _different_ , no matter how similar they seem on the surface, no matter how much it seems they have in common. She may have had her dreams and her accomplishments diminished for being a rabbit trying to be a cop — but at least she’s never had to fight for her _existence_ every single day of her life. At least her species isn’t used in the same way someone would say _drug addict_ or _thief_ or _slimy trash_.

At least her existence isn’t _criminalized_.

( He remembers the first time he saw her. He remembers seeing this tiny bunny in a meter maid vest, with a dumb little meter maid hat on, her jokemobile parked across the road, and he remembers the innocuous little canister hanging off her belt that said _fox repellent_.

He remembers feeling the ugly curl of both fear and disgust in his stomach, and then shoving it both away, because honestly, he’s spent his whole life assuming someone’s going to try and hurt him on account of him being _him_ every other day, so he’d just turned away and focused on the con and not on the fact that this tiny bunny who he’s never met is equipped with a self-defence weapon against an _entire type of_ species and _I’m not looking for any trouble either sir, I simply wanna buy a Jumbo Pop —_ )

“— Nick, are you even listening to me?”

He blinks. His eyes burn a little — had he not been blinking? By the time he refocuses she looks miffed, but she hasn’t stopped holding his paw, so.

“Absolutely, 100%.” Nick says. “Just, you know, blood loss ‘n all.”

The look on her face softens so quick it feels like a gutpunch. He doesn’t know if he regrets bringing it up or not. “Nick, if you want to go back to sleep, I can go —“

“— No, you don’t—“ Nick starts, embarrassingly faster than he’ll ever admit, before he catches himself and coughs, turning back to look at the unused TV mounted across from his bed. “I mean. You don’t have to go yet. Can’t let a guy like me sleep too long, y’know — I’ll get soft ‘round the middle.”

Judy doesn’t stop looking at him with those soft, soft eyes, but she doesn’t move away either. In fact, she just smiles, squeezes his hand a little more, leaning back to get cozy in her uncomfortable plastic chair. It makes his own mouth want to slap and betray him by curling in at the edges too.

“I don’t see what’s so bad about that,” she murmurs, “And besides, you could use more meat on your bones.”

“Excuse you, I’ve had a _wonderful_ meal over the last 18 hours. Would you care for some? This IV fluid is top-notch stuff.” He glances back at her, waggling his brows. Her answering laughter is beautiful, and an excellent distraction from how a part of him wants to say _I don’t know_ how _to get more meat on these bones, I don’t know how to eat food without hoarding it, so that basically means I can’t eat like a normal person and that makes me a little bit of a_ freak —

God, he could use a pawpsicle right now. For all the weird sense memories he’s gotten associated with them ( _starving, so hungry and starving, they weren’t anywhere near filling but the sugar would at least give him the energy to truck on and finish the day_ —) he really doesn’t think he’s up to hospital food. Honestly, the IV fluid _is_ way better than that. Eating his _bed_ would probably be better than that.

Judy’s smile is a much better thing than those thoughts. “Once you’re out of here, I’ll treat you to dinner. How’s that sound?”

“Aw, Carrots, with an offer like that, how could I refuse?” Nick grins. “Oh, man. I’d _kill_ for Marco’s roasted eggplant lasagne right now, been craving it since — I’ve been craving it.”

Judy rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t stop smiling. “Well, guess I should try it at some point or another, considering how much you keep harping on about it being _the best lasagne in Zootopia_.”

He has half a mind to tell her _it definitely is, I mean, what other food could I still be craving even after I got stabbed the last time I was thinking about it_ — and then thinks better of it, and just winks at her. She doesn’t need to know any of that.  She just needs to know that he got stabbed. He won’t worry her more. He’s not gonna talk about this anymore; it’s in the past now.

“Okay, so Marco’s once you’re out of here. I promise, alright? So long as _you_ promise to stay in bed, get better, and _stop_ annoying random civilians into stabbing you.”

She’s winking at _him_ now. He… doesn’t find it quite as funny.

“Gotta work on your comedy skills, Carrots, but I appreciate the effort.” Nick finally forces, because she’s _trying_ , and he’s got to give her points for that. Even if it’s not all in the right places. ( Not that it’d be the first time; he still painfully remembers the first time they properly talked and all the cringeworthy _you’re a swell dad and a really articulate fella_ speak and just. Points for… some sort of backhanded effort.)

He almost regrets saying anything at all though, because her smile wilts just that little bit. “Oh, Nick. You know I was joking.”

He sighs, and forces himself to un-tense. “Yeah, I know.”

She hums, and strokes his knuckles with her thumb. “And besides, once we get the security footage from the corner shops and the witness statements, we can _definitely_ find out the actual motive behind her assault on you.”

Nick _freezes_.

“… You’re going to _what_?”

“Get the security footage, yeah. Delgato and Trunkaby are on it — we don’t know exactly where it happened since you were out for awhile, but we know the street you were on, and there’s security cameras in each café.” Judy explains, casually, like it’s nothing. “Besides, since it was in the street in _broad daylight_ , there were plenty of witnesses around, so Wolford and Francine are going around getting their statements.”

Oh no. Oh no no no no _no_. They’re going to find out, they’re — _Judy’s_ going to find out, and for all she’s very much aware of the rampant speciesism around them she does _not_ have to see what happened, doesn’t have to find out like this, doesn’t have to know about him getting shoved _off_ and away from his vehicle (his own, his _own_ , it’s old and twice used but it’s _his_ ) and getting accused of _trying to steal his own damn car_ by a very, very angry chinchilla who he didn’t know had a _pocket knife_ at the time.

Judy doesn’t need to know about how the chinchilla had _laughed_ at him all nasty and ugly when he said it was his, when he said he was a cop, when he showed her his _badge_ and his _keys_. Judy doesn’t need to know how she’d _snarled_ , what she _said_ _(“Y— You? You? A cop? You’re a fox, you fucking criminal — I know a skulker when I see one and you’re every inch the type. Just ‘cause you know how to wave a fake badge around don’t make you a smart criminal — if the ZPD could let a fuckin’ vulp into the system, that’s how I know this stupid city’s finally doomed for good—“),_ Judy doesn’t need to know exactly how it _looked_ when the chinchilla lady’d finally had enough of him trying to get past her and decided to make her point with the _knife_ —

He doesn’t even realize he’s hyperventilating until Judy starts shaking his arm. He can’t breathe, he can’t _hear_ ; all he’s got in his ears is this deafening white noise, a rush of non-stop static, and he doesn’t know whether it’s because of the memory of the stabbing, or because Judy’s going to see him the way he was that day, or because when the chinchilla had stood over him that day, he’d gotten an abrupt flashback to stagnant basements and a dozen arms holding him down.

Either way, it doesn’t matter, because he’s having a heart attack. He’s _definitely_ having a heart attack, because why else would his pulse race so fucking fast it feels like he’s put his ears right next to a rushing river? Why else would it feel like his lungs _aren’t working_ and his chest feels like it’s about to explode and he’s going to _die_ right after surviving a stabbing and that’s pathetic, _really_ pathetic, even for him —

“— Nick,” comes a voice, closer to his ear, makes him jerk before the pain in his side makes him wince, “Nick, I need you to look at me. _Look at me._ ”

Paws — small, white, softer than his own — cup his muzzle gently. So, so gently. Moves it towards her until he finally catches lavender, and then she starts inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly and he copies it after staring for _way_ too long and then, just.

In, out. In, out. In, out. Over, and over, and over, until the rushing in his ears finally fades, and his lungs finally cooperate.

If his eyes are moist when he finally draws in a deep, shaky breath on his own, that’s his own business.

“Nick. Nick? Are you back with me?” Judy says, her voice soft enough to almost be a whisper. She’s still leaned over him, but backed just far enough away that she’s not hovering. “Nick?”

“I’m —“ he wheezes, “I’m okay. I’m — I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. But that’s okay. Nick, listen to me — _that’s okay_.” Judy says, all soft and gentle and he doesn’t deserve her, at all, _ever_. “Nick, what _was_ that?”

The million dollar question, really. Because what could he even say? He was doing just _fine_ until she mentioned the incident and then he just suddenly had a freakout, and, fuck, he’s a burden on her enough as is. She really, _really_ doesn’t need to know any of the above.

… But she’s going to anyway, isn’t she? She’s going to insist to be let on this case (and god, he didn’t even realize it would _be_ a case; he’d legitimately forgotten that what happened to him was straight up aggravated assault bordering on _attempted murder_ ) and she’s going to watch the footage and she’s going to come find him with those sad, pitiful eyes, and.

“Please don’t watch the tapes,” he finally says, throat scratchier than before, “Judy. Don’t.”

Her frown only intensifies. Grey brows furrow. “Nick, I _have_ to. We need to find out what happened, and we need proof, and you’re obviously not going to tell me.”

“I don’t want you to see it.” He says. He swallows the lump in his throat, and then stares up at the ceiling and tries hard not to blink in case something he regrets will start rolling unbidden down his face. “Carrots. _Judy_. Just — anyone but you.”

He can’t see her, she’s not even _touching_ him anymore, but he swears he can _hear_ her tense up. Can hear the gears chugging in her brain. And then;

“… I won’t watch them, if you’ll tell me what happened.”

His next inhale is sharp, jagged, and ugly. “I can’t. I can’t, Carrots, I really —“

“Then I’m going to have to watch the tapes. _Nick_.” She says, firmer this time. “What happened to you was _aggravated assault_. You could have _died_. And this isn’t even — this isn’t even talking about how you got stabbed and then _proceeded to pursue a suspect_ instead of calling for backup and then an _ambulance_ —“

Her voice is getting more and more wavery as she talks, and his heart clenches. His stomach _curdles_. He hates this, he hates everything _about_ this — but he hates making her upset even more.

And so, slowly, he tells her.

What happened. What was said. What was _done_. He doesn’t confirm or deny whether he was in Sandtrap Avenue to gather info on Olly Summers, but he talks about catching her in the act. Trying to _catch_ her. And then the car, and the chinchilla, and all the shouting scaring Summers away until she stole a car and drove off, and Nick trying to shove past the chinchilla to get _into_ his car to radio backup and pursue her and then the _stabbing_ , and.

And by the time he’s done, his hands are trembling, but at least one is held firmly between two equally shaky, smaller white paws. And when he finally has the spine to glance at Judy, sick feeling in his stomach crashing like waves — he sees an expression. But not the one he expected to see.

Her ears are still drooped, but they’re more flattened back against her head than just… flopping. She’s shaking, and she’s definitely crying, but the look in her eyes isn’t the pity he’d been dreading. Not the pred-guilt he’d happily get stabbed again just to avoid.

No. Judy just looks _pissed_.

“I just — I can’t _believe_ —“ Judy’s biting out between gritted teeth, glaring angry, tearful daggers into his palm in her lap, “No one even _helped_ , and she called you a, a — Nick, you were wearing a _jean jacket_!”

It takes a powerful, powerful amount of self control to not shrug away the comment. To not tell Judy that it didn’t matter what he was wearing. It didn’t matter if he wore a black hooded jacket and sunglasses and a baseball cap; it didn’t matter that he wore a white tee, dark green jean jacket, _beige slacks_. Hell, he could’ve worn a pink tutu and a puffy yellow sweater and it wouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t matter that he held the keys to his car in his paw, it didn’t matter that he carried his badge around with him everywhere _for this exact purpose_.

The chinchilla only saw him as a fox. And that was all that chinchilla needed to see.

( _“Let that be a lesson, vulp,” the chinchilla said, mouth in a sneer, “Don’t go acting like you’re so smart, pretending you’re a cop. Want some advice? You’re a fox, ‘n you’re all nothing but skeevy lowlives. No one’ll ever believe the cop gig. Remember that the next time you try and steal a car off of my street.”_ )

“It’s just like that, Carrots.” Nick says, half-whispers, looking down while his fingers curl against hers. “It’s always been like that. Not even the first time I’ve been hurt over it.”

Her fingers tighten against his knuckles. Her breathing sounds angrier. “That’s not right, that’s _not okay_ , that’s — And then _you!_ ”

Nick blinks at that, and finally looks up at her. To have that enraged gaze right at _him_ — his brain ceases function for a second.

“You were just _stabbed_ , and you decide that your priority’s to _chase a fugitive?_?” Judy grits out, frustration _bleeding_ into every word, “If we, if we didn’t catch Summers in time, if we didn’t box her in and you kept going — Nick, you could’ve _bled out and died!_ ”

He swallows. “Didn’t really focus on it at the time,” he mutters, “Summers was getting away. Couldn’t — I couldn’t exactly let that happen, Carrots. I’m a cop.”

“And you could’ve been a _dead cop_!” Judy half- _yells_ , before she finally shuts her mouth again and releases his paw to scrub her face and breathe. The loss is immediate, and his throat makes a funny noise before he even realizes it.

When she finally looks up again, she’s calmed, but her brows are still furrowed. Her eyes _exhausted_. He hates himself, just a little, for doing that to her. (This is of course a feat, considering how much he hates himself already on the regular.)

“Why would you do that, Nick?” she says, voice hoarse. “We were so close to nabbing Summers. You didn’t need to go into a chase for her — another two, three days of digging and we would’ve _got_ her. Why did you do that?”

 _Because I’m a failure. Because I am a_ fox.

His eyes prickle. He shuts them. _Because if the world’s only ever gonna see a fox as shifty, and untrustworthy, then I’m going to have to start working twice,_ thrice _as hard to prove them wrong. To prove that I’m capable. To prove that I’m_ worthy _. That I’m not a stereotype, that I’m capable of being good, that I should be allowed to_ live.

“… I couldn’t let her get away.” Is what he finally says, after a long, fragile silence. ( _I couldn’t let her get away. Everyone’s just waiting for me to fuck up, to slip, to trip, to let something weave past my fingers. I can’t prove them right._ ) “Not after everything I worked for.”

He still doesn’t open his eyes, but he can hear Judy’s breathing. Controlled, in and out, trying to calm _herself_ , and it must work because the next time he hears her, she’s _really_ close to him. He can feel her; the softness of her grey fur as he feels her nudge her head against his own, his paw cradled protectively against her chest, like he’ll disappear if she lets go. When she nuzzles her forehead against his cheek, he swears his heart’s melted, dripped between his ribs to well into something warm and tender enough to hurt and drown him.

“You have to promise me you’ll never do it again,” Judy finally says. Voice low and soft and gentle but so, so firm. “I know what you were trying to do, but Nick? Nick. You’re no good to _anyone_ dead.”

His jaw’s trembling. He clenches it shut. She continues.

“I can’t — I don’t even know how to _begin_ to imagine what it must be like. To, to have to _live_ like that, in fear, always, to have your, your — your _species_ used as a _slur_.” She says, her voice barely betraying the anger and tears in them. “But after everything that’s happened — everything we’ve been through, you and I, after what we _did_ for Zootopia —“

He can smell her tears. Salty, so _close_ to him that it feels like breathing in saltwater. He doesn’t dare open his own eyes for the same reason; none of this stops him from turning his head to the side a little, so his muzzle’s leaning a little on her head, nosing the pinch between her brows.

She takes a steadying breath. “— Nick, we’re trying to change. We’ve seen our mistakes and what it could bring, and, and not everyone will get with the times, but— Nick. Us? Me, and Fangmeyer, and Delgato and Grizzoli and Chief Bogo and _everyone_ , all our friends and family — Nick, they’re trying to change. _We’re_ trying to change. We can’t understand what it’s like, but we can do _better_ from here on out. And we can’t do that if you keep making _excuses_ on our behalf, and hurting yourself bending over b— backwards to try and prove yourself.”

One of her paws lets go of his, here. Migrates, instead, to cup his cheek — moves him closer, so she can press the smallest of kisses to the top of his snout. His breath hitches in his chest.

“Give us a chance to do right by you, Nick. You and everyone like you. _Let us try to be better_.” Judy murmurs. She smells like green tea shampoo and pumpkin pudding.

“You have the right to exist without having to fight for it.”

Nick… doesn’t cry. He doesn’t. Really. But he’s not too proud to hide the fact that he holds onto her for the better part of the hour — moving, a little, shifting so she can join him on the bed and curl at the side away from his IV and wound. He holds onto her, and she holds onto him, and if her apricot hoodie gets a little bit soaked in the front by the time she gets up to get him food, well. No one needs to know why.

He knows he can’t do everything she asked, not just like that. It doesn’t happen overnight. It’s… wishful thinking, to assume that it could. He doubts he’ll ever be able to stop looking over his shoulder, for mammals with knives or muzzles or fox repellent hanging on their belts. He doubts he’ll quit hoarding food anytime soon, doubts he’ll ever be able to eat without feeling like he has to scrape aside half so he can eat the next day. He doubts he’ll ever be able to do _anything_ without feeling like his every action’s going to be judged, put up on a scale before the world, the single determiner between whether whoever’s around him will see foxes are normal mammals or shifty, skeevy, worthless criminal lowlives. There will always be a part of him that wants to scurry and hide; and another that will keep wanting to push himself to the limit, to prove himself. There’s no getting rid of any of that so easy.

… But tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow, he’ll ask Judy to bring in Wolfard and Francine, and he’ll talk about it. And he’ll watch the tapes. And he’ll ask for a week off to recover, even though he knows he’s going to be freaking out about it the entire time, and probably restless enough to pop at least two of his stitches.

But it’s in the small steps. Every one forward is progress. Right? That’s what Judy would say. That’s what his mom would say. That’s what _he_ should say. They all have to try to be better. To _do_ better.

Maybe one day he’ll finally be able to live normally without feeling like an imposter. Maybe one day he’ll be able to do something just for the fun of it. Maybe he’ll be able to exist without feeling like he has to rationalize and reason everything he does for everyone else’s consumption. He’ll have to live to find out for sure; it’s exhausting, but he has to do it. He owes it to everyone who’s ever believed in him. He owes it to _himself_ , though it’ll be awhile yet before he can face that debt.

And here? Curled around his favourite bunny, who refuses to lead him or take his back, who insists on only staying _beside_ him, right by him, _equals, you and I_ —

He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can see this through.

**Author's Note:**

> this is supposed to be for angst april and i'm a couple days late but i'm just.........gonna slide it in there. yeah. none of this was beta'ed, all mistakes are mine, as are any inaccuracies and the like.
> 
>  
> 
> **tropes: fantastic racism, unrealized injury**
> 
>  
> 
> about time i wrote something for this movie that's one of my absolute favourites and still makes me cry. i love them so much.
> 
> say hi to me on [tumblr](keycchan.tumblr.com) and remember: kudos and comments make my day just that much brighter<3


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